


Underwater

by The_Only_Charlie



Series: The Battle of Austerlitz [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Pining John Watson, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Tarmac Scene, Tarmac Hell, The Tarmac Scene (Sherlock)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26212267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Only_Charlie/pseuds/The_Only_Charlie
Summary: Mary turned towards John, shielding her eyes from the sun.“He is dead. I mean, you told me he is dead. Moriarty,” but John didn’t even have enough strength to respond dismissively. All he cared about was that Sherlock was coming back.Oh my God, he was. He could see the plane already.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Battle of Austerlitz [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903648
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	Underwater

"Moriarty… he… he is back," the first wave of shock seemed to lose control over Mycroft when he looked at John and then at his phone again. His face and posture were tense as if he couldn’t believe his senses anymore. 

_Shit_.

John could feel all emotions weigh him down at once- the denial and disbelief mixed together, clouding John’s judgment. Moriarty was dead, as dead as it gets! He was lacking half of his head, for God’s sake! 

_No, no, he couldn’t simply be alive, not after all those years_ , he thought. Not after all Sherlock did to destroy his criminal empire, thread by thread, leaving John behind to _mourn and grieve,_ to rot away in London by himself!

John took a shallow breath, focusing his eyes on the tarmac. He should concentrate on the things that were going on right now.

The thought sparked up in his head- maybe it was one of Sherlock’s tricks? Maybe he did it on purpose, knowing too well that they wouldn’t send him to Eastern Europe if Moriarty was _sashaying_ around London. That's the first guess of John’s confused brain- that Sherlock was never planning on leaving and once again let him feel like an empty shell. An utter cock, he was. _God damn you, Sherlock Holmes!_

Was he going through shock? It must have been a psychological shock because he was just in pain and grieve, he just made a peace with not seeing Sherlock ever again (ok, not really) and suddenly the numb feeling taking over his limbs was overflowing him, making it impossible to breathe properly, yet allowed him to actually believe that Sherlock was coming back to him. 

_He could see Sherlock’s face through slightly parted eyelids, so close to his. The taste of the detective’s favourite tea still on John’s lips, the warmth of his large hand on his cheek. Nothing was disappearing anymore. The chair wasn’t empty, it looked like it was never neglected, never left behind. Always contained the detective on its seat with his smell, presence._

John felt like crying, his chest full of emotions blended together- anger, hope and hopelessness at the same time (was that even possible?), confusion, shame, and everything in between. 

“Mycroft,” he snarled using the most assertive tone he could come up with, “what is happening, what does it mean? Is he…”

John was about to nag at Mycroft further, demanding any explanation whatsoever, but Mycroft held his hand up to silence him while making another call. The burning desire to punch the British Government washed over him.

" _Oh please, let me watch_ ," Sherlock’s voice rang in the soldier's right ear. Yeah, he would love to watch John hit him, wouldn't he? He could almost hear him smiling and resisted the urge to look over his shoulder. _It's not the time._

_But what if it wasn’t Sherlock?_ whispered John’s subconsciousness, _What if Moriarty was back for real?_

_Impossible, he killed himself._

_Sherlock did too…_

Some eerie feeling enveloped him in its embrace, urging him to swallow saliva with difficulty, caused by the too-dry throat. This strange mix of emotions additionally tightened his pharynx and all he could do was to hem and clench his free hand in a fist. Unclench. Clench. Unclench… 

What if the man who once took Sherlock away from him, was back to finish what he started? What if he succeeded this time? Once and for all destroyed Sherlock to the point of no return, to the point where not even Mycroft could help. The thought of losing Sherlock, before he even properly got him back ( _again_ ) sent shivers down his spine, which caught Mary’s attention. 

She reached for his hand and squeezed it reassuringly, trying to give him some comfort, an anchor that could bring him back from his tangled, dark thoughts. But the memories of the roof and the pool kept coming. 

Images flew before his eyes, unable to block them. This _bloody_ pool, where Moriarty turned John into a Christmas tree with explosives all over his torso. His voice, so calm, so smooth it almost made him puke, drilling through his ear making his whole temporal lobe vibrate with disgust. 

_This is a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?_

_“Sherlock, run!” John twists Moriarty’s arm behind his back, to shield himself with his body. Sherlock tenses up, backing up in surprise._

**_Jesus Christ, just run, Sherlock. Please, for once in your life do as I say!_ **

_But the detective keeps his gun raised and aimed at Moriarty. He is not leaving John’s side. Ever._

_“Pressure point,”_ reminds the whisper.

So they were in this together. Probably from the second John pulled the trigger at the Roland Kerr Further Education College.

John shook his head and looked at Mary’s hand intertwined with his, considering letting go. He should really make up his mind and finally decide what to do with Mary, because he knew he couldn’t just forgive her for everything she’s done… _Jesus_ , all those lies, the deception of perfectly normal life, happy marriage. 

The beautiful facade covering ugly truth- his whole life in a nutshell. 

Beautiful, flowery words decorating the reality, that wasn’t even half that pleasing. Becoming a soldier to satisfy his need for action, becoming a doctor to satisfy his need to control the situation and urge of knowing things, dating only women to satisfy his father’s homophobic beliefs and pride, marrying Mary (the best thing that happened to him?) to not end up alone and to get over his feelings for his very much male flatmate. 

_So many lies._

He shouldn’t dwell too long, he should just go and… the movement of Mycroft’s car pulled him out of his thoughts.

Mycroft got back to the vehicle and John could only hear a small part of the conversation. 

“... You are needed.”

_Indeed you are needed, Sherlock._

Mary turned towards John, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“He is dead. I mean, you told me he is dead. Moriarty,” but John didn’t even have enough strength to respond dismissively. All he cared about was that Sherlock was coming back. Oh my God, _he was_. He could see the plane already.

And just like that with the sight of the plane John’s hope grew, subduing other feelings. Once a faint light, just a glimmer, now a proper star surrounded with its own planetary system. John was back at one of Sherlock’s orbits until the detective either turned into a pair-instability supernova burning in a runaway thermonuclear explosion or red giant expanding his diameter and swallowing John so they could become whole. 

A few minutes until his plane landed.

Suddenly the anticipation turned into anxiety and John was seven again, about to walk into the lake for the first time on his own, without his yellow armbands on. 

_The lake with a calm and steady surface, coloured with a full range of blues and greens, but clear when looked at from up close, was exciting yet frightening to immerse into, to allow water to carry him regardless of his fears, or what others said about the water. Feeling of it touching every part of his body, floating in space where gravity is just a word, not a force pulling him ruthlessly towards the ground, was new and thrilling._

_“Once you get your head underwater, the fear disappears,” his mom said, swimming beside him. Water reached his neck, so he either took a step back or forward. The woman with her blond hair tied up in a bun smiled at him and took his hand in hers. “Just blow the air from your nose as you submerge and keep your mouth closed. Nothing to be scared of, John.”_

_The boy was hesitant. Harry loved to be underwater, but their father always got angry when she dived._

_“It’s ok to be underwater,” his mom got even closer to him and was holding his both hands now, “let’s do this together.”_

_John nodded and looked down. There was nothing wrong with being submerged, to sink. To accept it._

_“On three. One, two…”_

_Three._

The landing gear hit the ground and in a reflex, John couldn’t control, he let go of Mary’s hand. 

Sherlock was his _water._ His love for Sherlock was his _water._ Not pure, nothing pure about it, if anything, a little turbid because of the shame and denial, on worse days almost muddy, on better calm and fresh. On better days he could sip it, touch it, use it to warm up or cool off with it, but when he was too harsh, it turned into a tsunami, taking everything with it, only the remains of his thoughts and memories either floating or drowning.

On the worst day of his life, he fell into it from the Barts Hospital’s roof and the thing with water is that it acts as a block of concrete when you fall into it from high above, so John fell and shattered into pieces.

But now he flowed with it, making a step towards a runway. He clenched and unclenched his fists a few times trying not to run in the direction of a speeding aeroplane. _Pull yourself together, John. Don’t do anything stupid._

He could feel relief filling his chest, however, his throat tightened at the memory of Sherlock’s warm hand caressing his. But it was stupid, childish to exaggerate a simple touch, it was _nothing_. Just a simple touch. 

Just a touch.

A touch to make sure he is here, that he is back or that he never left. Just a touch.

The plane was coming back to the spot where they said their goodbyes. John discovered he was moving, ignoring his name being called out behind him, when he noticed the stewardess opening the door before him. 

_I am going to have only a few seconds. Maybe five. Just a touch._

John walked like on auto-pilot, the only thing he acknowledged was his destination- the six-foot-tall, curly-haired, pale git that couldn’t somehow stop leaving him behind.

A cockpit was on his left, so his feet led him to the right side-

Sherlock. And despair exploded inside John. Heavy, overwhelming despair, reminding him that he could have never seen him again. 

Sherlock stood up, his eyes wide open, looking anxiously behind John’s back, probably still in shock that he is back on the ground. 

“John.”

John exhaled all the air he’s been holding since he entered the plane, closing the gap between them. 

Three more seconds.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, burying his face in his neck. That’s what he was supposed to do when Sherlock came back. _This, not delivering punches._

The silent inhales, eyes shut, scents mixing together, warmth all around him radiating from strong arms on John’s back, pulling him closer. He could feel this unfamiliar heat on his chest, on his face, even inside him. Sherlock’s embrace turned him inside out.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock’s breath slipped through the hair on top of John’s head, triggering chills to run all over his body, like he’s just got out of the water, soaking wet and cold, seeking for comfort.

The sound of multiple steps on the stairs leading to the plane pulled John out of his comforting cocoon, forcing him to clench his hands into fists on the material of the detective's jacket for the last time and let go. How much effort it took him to separate himself from his friend, only John knew.

Sherlock, looking exhausted, fell back again on his comfortably looking seat, not looking at newly arrived Mycroft and Mary. Soon after, he started maundering about some old case from a hundred years ago not making any sense whatsoever. Ricoletti… Dead but alive...

Mary sighed and took a seat opposite of Sherlock, looking at John worriedly. John frowned a bit in response. Why was she looking at him like that? Like she knew some-

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft’s face dropped and he retreated to sit down and lean on his umbrella like he always did. 

_‘Oh Sherlock’ what?_

“I was immersed.”

“Of course you were,” John sent Mycroft a look which he didn’t return, causing him to get more and more concerned with every second.

Just now, John noticed that Mary took Sherlock’s phone and unlocked it. Her fingers lingered for a second above the screen.

“You've been reading John's blog,” she smiled and John didn’t have the courage to look at Sherlock, Mary, nor anyone else. No, he already hugged Sherlock five minutes ago, so the daily limit of ‘the things done on the spur of the moment’ has been reached. Thank you very much. Yet, his heart skipped a bit. “The story of how you’ve met.”

Finally, John gave in and glanced at his friend, trying not to be obvious, but the said friend was only massaging his temples, not looking at anyone.

“It helps me if I see myself through his eyes sometimes. I'm so much cleverer.”

John smirked.

_Of course. He is the wisest man I’ve ever known. He knows that I already told him. Isn’t it funny that I confess most of the things before I think one of us is going to die? I really should stop doing that. And I thought he had bad timing._

“You really think anyone’s believing you?”

John doesn’t understand the sudden change of an atmosphere, doesn’t understand why Sherlock won’t look at him, why Mary _is_ looking at him and why the hell Mycroft asks about some sort of _list_? What list?

“Everything you’ve taken.”

 _No_ , thought John, _he hasn’t taken anything, it’s just what he does in his mind palace, it’s just…_

But Sherlock was already handing them a piece of paper, which landed on the ground so John picked it up, trying to remain calm. 

_No. No._

_Fucking Ketamine? Phencyclidine? Mor-_

“Are you out of your mind?! This could’ve killed you!” which meant ‘I could’ve lost you, again. And again. And again-’.

John’s nostrils flared with anger and he sat opposite Mycroft, holding tight the piece of paper. _What a bloody idiot!_

“Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality,” answered Sherlock, closing his eyes, looking more and more annoyed with every second of the conversation. Mycroft was having none of it.

“Look, Sherlock, I’m not angry with you…”

“Ah, such a relief. I was so worried… Oh, wait, I wasn’t.”

Mary said something about Ricoletti's case being still unsolved when John finally could feel Sherlock’s eyes on him, unfocused almost unseeing. John frowned, staring back.

“What did you say?”

John’s frown deepened. He hasn’t said a thing.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, you did. You said: ’Which is it today? Morphine or cocaine?’.”

Mary straightened up in her seat as well as Mycroft, who was looking even more alarmed than he was already after seeing the list.

“Holmes?” said Sherlock and his body went numb, eyes shut closed. 

John immediately jumped towards him, slapping lightly his cheek.

“Sherlock? Can you hear me?” he parted his eyelids to see if pupils responded to light, angling Sherlock’s head towards it. They did, but it didn’t make the doctor any less upset. He took the detective's pulse on the wrist while looking at his watch. One hundred and two. Given the fact that his normal resting rate was about seventy, he was having a tachycardia. Great.

_Don’t you fucking dare to die right now, Sherlock or I’ll kill you myself._

He touched his forehead to check the temperature. It’s really warm, but before John could tell the others to call for an ambulance, Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. 

At first, they weren’t focused on anything, more like looking around, as if to assure himself that the trance was over and he was back on the plane.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?”

Sherlock’s eyes finally focused on John and a wide smile lit up his face, despite an overall tired expression. 

“Missed me?”

John let out all the air he was holding unconsciously, not taking back his hand resting near Sherlock’s face. Relieved but still angry (their relationship in a nutshell) John stayed leaned forward, scrutinizing the detective’s face.

“Sherlock, are you okay?” but the second those words left his mouth he knew the answer already, by the light frown forming between Sherlock’s eyebrows.

_Of course, I am, why wouldn’t I be._

“Of course, I am, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You overdosed, you should be at the hospital,” said Mary, worriedly leaning towards Sherlock from her seat.

John held back a snort, straightening up. Sherlock staying at the hospital? Please. He knew that in a second Sherlock will wobbly stand up and say that he needs to go back to Baker Street. He had a case after all. 

And this is exactly what he did, adding a few remarks towards Mycroft, with his coat in hand, while exiting the plane. He was about to leave the plane himself when Mycroft’s voice stopped him.

“Dr Watson.”

John turned on his heel and faced Mycroft, trying to focus on his words, not the fact that the “dead-in-six-months-in-Eastern-Europe” fiasco was actually over and Mycroft was the one to send Sherlock there in the first place.

“Look after him. Please,” his face turned soft, almost painfully hopeless in its vulnerability.

All John could do was to nod, because he would do it anyway if Sherlock liked it or not, if Mycroft asked him or not.

He joined Mary and Sherlock outside, listening to their conversation about Moriarty being dead, _no question_.

“And what now? What is your plan?” he asked, watching Sherlock put his gloves on. Just before Sherlock had a chance to answer, Mycroft materialized next to them.

“Vauxhall Cross, Sherlock. Now.”

Sherlock rolled eyes at his brother but obediently opened the car door to get inside the vehicle. For a second his gaze lingered on John, with his mouth open to say something but he quickly looked around and thought better of it, disappearing inside the car. 

John stood there with Mary by his side watching two out of three black cars drive away. He needed tea, to sort out everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours. A big cup of tea.

“Dr Watson, I was told to drive you home,” the young driver interrupted his thoughts, opening the door for his wife. In answer John only nodded, thinking that it would be funny if he would leave him on Baker Street, that was his _home_ after all.

A little disappointed by the lack of Sherlock’s offer to accompany him in this adventure, he got in the car himself and fastened seat belts.

He was married to Mary, Sherlock to his work. They weren’t living together anymore, Sherlock less and less often told him about the cases. He was a lone ranger once again and it shouldn’t be a surprise to John, that he quickly moved on without…

The ping of his phone brought him back. He took his phone out of the trouser’s pocket and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Text from Sherlock? John unlocked his phone to read it.

_Baker Street. Come at once if convenient._

_\- SH_

There was water at his feet suddenly. 

The warm fondness spilt out in his chest and took all his strength to not hug the device to his heart. Mentally he was already sitting in his chair, listening to Sherlock’s violin as he sipped his tea. He could almost smell Mrs Hudson’s scones when he washed the dishes and Sherlock’s expensive shampoo after he entered the bathroom right after him. He could smell Baker Street.

“What is it? Some good news?” was he _that_ transparent? Was he _sm_ _iling_? 

John clenched his teeth. Right. Mary won’t be happy about it. He took a deep breath, to hell with it!

“Umm… Sherlock needs me back at Baker Street,” he threw, waiting for the answer. All he got was neutral “uhm” and that was it. John knew it wasn’t the end of the conversation but to be honest- he didn’t care at all, because he couldn’t stop this weird feeling inside him like something bloomed there, some rare flower, its petals tickling his guts. Next ping.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. Take some clothes._

_\- SH_

And just like that- John was underwater again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well then, finally closed season 3 with this chapter and from now on, nothing will be the same. This story will turn mature/explicit at some point, so yeah, you've been warned (or encouraged, it's up to you, my filthy beasts).  
> Hope you liked this weird meta-full-of-feelings-and-pining weird kind of chapter. I promise you more action since now on <3  
> Let me know what you think, kudos and comment away <3  
> I'm letting you know about updates on my tumblr @so-damn-confused, so follow me to stay tuned :)  
> Take care, loves<3


End file.
